The godswood of Greywater Watch was unlike any Jon had known. There was big heart tree with a white face and red leaves. Its face hidden by creepers growing upwards while, they gathered beside the grove of half-drowned weirwood trees, the roots tangled in the dark water, their limbs heavy with moss. Fireflies drifted through the mist like wandering stars.
Howland Reed stood still, his slight frame dwarfed by the trees. Ghost padded to Jon's side, his white fur brushing Jon's hand.
"It is time," Howland said at last. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "Time you learned what was kept from you—too long, perhaps, though not without reason."
Jon said nothing, his throat tight.
Howland's gaze lifted, as if he saw something in the shifting mist. "It began at Harrenhal, when your mother was yet a girl and your father—a prince bound by duty and sorrow. I was there, though few remember it. I was no great knight, no lord of renown, only the crannogman who came at the bidding of friends. Yet I saw it with my own eyes."
Jon listened as the old lord spoke.
He told of the great tourney, when all the realm had gathered beneath the shadow of the haunted towers. He told of Lyanna Stark, fierce and wild girl, besting squires who mocked her in the yard. He told of the mysterious knight of the laughing tree who humbled proud lords and then vanished like morning mist.
And he told of Rhaegar Targaryen, crown prince of the realm, who won the jousting and rode past his wife, Elia of Dorne, to lay a crown of winter roses at Lyanna's lap.
"That was the song's beginning," Howland said softly. "Though few knew its words."
Jon's chest tightened. He had heard tales and whispers, of kidnapping and rape, half-remembered, but never like this.
"Later, Lyanna vanished," Howland went on. "Some say she was stolen, some that she fled. Truth is seldom so simple. They wed in secret, with the blessing of gods and men. It was no base lust nor abduction—it was love, fierce as wolf and dragon they both were, and folly too. For by it the realm was torn apart."
Jon's hands clenched. He could almost hear the clash of Robert's warhammer, smell the ash of burning keeps.
Howland's eyes did not waver. "At the war's end, when dragons lay dead and lions roared, your uncle Ned came with six companions to a lonely tower in Dorne. I was one of them. At its foot, we found three of the Kingsguard: Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander; Ser Oswell Whent; and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. They did not yield to our demands and so they died to defend what was within."
The man's voice grew hushed. "And within lay your mother, Lyanna Stark, in a bed of blood. She was dying, but not before she placed her child in your uncle's arms. Not before she bound him with a promise."
Jon's breath caught.
"She made him swear to protect you, to keep your name and blood hidden from Robert's wrath. And so he did. To the world, you became his bastard son, Jon Snow. To Robert, nothing more than the fruit of a lust Ned Stark never spoke of. Only your uncle and I knew the truth."
The grove was silent but for the croak of frogs and the whisper of reeds.
Howland Reed let the words linger before turning, motioning Jon to follow. They left the godswood for his solar, a narrow chamber lined with books older than he has ever any seen, the air heavy with smoke from a single lamp.
From a coffer, he drew a bundle bound in oilcloth. He set it on the table and slowly unwrapped it.
Jon saw parchments—old, brittle, ink faded with years.
"This," Howland said, "is the proof. The marriage of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, witnessed and sealed."
Jon leaned forward, his heart hammering. There it was—the spidery signature of the High Septon Maynard, who had blessed the union. And below it, names writ clear: Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Oswell Whent. Ser Gerold Hightower. And most startling of all, Elia Martell, the prince's lawful wife, who had given her consent.
Jon's mouth went dry.
"I took these from Lyanna's chamber after her passing," Howland said. "Your uncle forbade me to reveal them. He feared Robert's fury, feared what truths might unleash. So I hid them, even from my family, until today. Yet I tell you now—there may be another copy. High Septon Maynard kept his ledgers, and some say they rest still in the Starry Sept at Oldtown. Should this proof be doubted, another may yet be found."
Jon stared at the parchment until the words blurred. He already knew he was not Ned Stark's son however all this time he had been thinking what if he was targaryen bastard instead, not snow but sand or waters. Yet he found out with proof to show the world, he was Aemon of House Targaryen, son of a prince and a Stark princess, heir to two great lines.
A warmth spread through him, fierce and sharp, but with it came sickness in his gut. Elia Martell. Her children. Murdered brutally at the sack of King's Landing. His half-siblings—innocents, butchered while Robert drank and Tywin smiled.
Jon closed his eyes. He could see them, though he had never known their faces. Could feel being a part of reason of their death.
Howland's gaze softened. "I see your grief. Do not think I have not felt it. When your uncle and I heard what befell Elia and her babes, Ned Stark's fury near shook the realm. He stood before Robert and Tywin both, calling them butchers. It near broke him, that the war he fought for honor and family ended in such dishonor. He was never the same after."
Jon opened his eyes, throat raw. He managed a nod. "I believe it."
The room was quiet but for the crackle of the lamp. After a moment, Jon lifted his head. "May I ask… for one thing?"
Howland inclined his head. "You may ask anything of me, my king."